Posts Tagged ‘ Prose VII.II ’

“Space Opera,” by Cal Cleary

Aug 20th, 2010 | By

I am sitting in a room with at least three hundred people, and I have been asked to move to the back because of my gigantic hat. I am not sure how to react. If I move, I will undoubtedly read about my shame in tomorrow’s gossip section, or at least I will hear about it tauntingly during my daily super-spacial swimming with fellow gentlemen. I do not want this. And, I reason, if the people behind me were important enough to do something about it, they would very probably not be sitting behind me.



“Cookies,” by Lauren Hargrave

Aug 19th, 2010 | By

“I don’t know what to tell you, our last exterminator wasn’t worth jack. He bumped and bruised his way through our home like a Neanderthal on steroids.”

“He was a cute Neanderthal from what I remember.”

“Eh, I don’t like the cleft chin thing; it reminds me of a plumber’s crack. And when someone’s ripping your kitchen apart and tearing up your hydrangeas, it’s pretty difficult to find them attractive.”



“The Saint of Redirection,” by Robert Scotellaro

Aug 19th, 2010 | By

I pray to the patron Saint of Redirection, who shows up juggling sardines and a large red apple he takes a bite out of every revolution or so.

“This life,” I say. “The sheer weight of it…”

“Is that you?” he asks, letting the silvery circle collapse at his feet — slipping the apple in his pocket. He’s pointing to an old photo. “No, that’s my older brother, when we were kids. I’m the one…” I turn and see he’s now rowing across the living room in a small boat. “Calm seas,” he announces, skirting the TV. “I think it’s going to be a magnificent voyage.”



“The Jane Austen Politico Fan Club,” by Leslie Haynsworth

Aug 19th, 2010 | By

“Folkstone looks a lot less orange today,” says Denise. “So that’s the good news. The bad news is that he’s still not quite on message about the school funding thing. He told the Nurses Association that his plan would cut their property taxes by an average of 31%. But our data shows that 64% of nurses in our state rent rather than own their primary residences. And as you know …”



“Puppy Love,” by George Walker

Aug 19th, 2010 | By

In the Ninth Ward of New New Orleans, the CEO of Atomitronics unleashed a flock of flamingobots. John LeChien, walking to work in the morning, heard them before he turned and saw them: a stiff-gaited pink horde clacking across the street and sidewalks.

He evaded the sharp beak of the first one and dropped to all fours to snap its plastic neck with his jaws. The beak of the second ripped his overalls to expose short blond fur. There were too many of them, rushing him from all directions. Tail between his legs, he dove between them and rolled, hearing the too-close thok-thok-thok of beaks striking the sidewalk.



“The Anatomy of Solace (Does Marie Antoinette Need Glasses?)” by David Cotrone

Aug 19th, 2010 | By

“The Redcoats are coming! The Redcoats are coming!”

“What?” the newcomer asks. “The red what?”

“The Red Coats. You know, Redcoats — the British soldiers: the Regulars, the King’s Men, the Lobsters, the Bloody Backs, etc. etc. etc.”

“But why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you yelling? Why are you trying to warn me about…the British, you said?” The newcomer pauses and kneads his hands. “I mean, they don’t seem that bad.” He does a quick scan of the area. “And I don’t think I see any here.”